Sweet Filthy Boy

by Christina Lauren

  His dimple flashes for the tiniest second. “Show me you’re still wearing my ring and you’re forgiven.”

  I hold up my left hand and he stares for a beat before bending to kiss the thin gold band.

  We sway a little, not moving much, while all around us people bounce and shake and dance on the floor. I lean my head into his chest and close my eyes, breathing in every part of him. “Anyway, we’re done with all of that. It’s your turn to babble tonight.”

  With a little smile, he bends close, kissing first my right cheek, and then my left. And then he touches his lips to mine for several long, perfect seconds. “My favorite color is green,” he says against my mouth, and I giggle. His hands slide down my sides, arms wrap together around my waist as he bends close, kissing his way up my neck. “I broke my arm when I was seven, trying to ride a skateboard. I love spring, hate winter. My childhood best friend’s name was Auguste and his older sister was Catherine. She was my first kiss, when I was eleven and she was twelve, in the pantry at my father’s house.”

  My fingers glide over his chest, up his throat, and link at the back of his neck.

  “My greatest trauma was my mother leaving for the States, but otherwise—and even though my father is a tyrant—my childhood was quite nice. I was terrible at math in school. I lost my virginity to a girl named Noémi when I was fourteen.” He kisses my cheek. “The last woman I had sex with was my wife, Mia Rose Guillaume.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “My favorite food is bread—I know it sounds horribly boring. And I don’t like dried fruit.”

  I laugh, pulling him in for a real kiss—finally—and Oh. My. God. His mouth is warm, already accustomed to mine. His lips are both soft and commanding. I feel his need to touch, to taste and fuck barely restrained, and his hands slide down over my ass, pulling my hips into him. His tongue barely touches mine and we both groan, pulling apart and breathing heavily.

  “I’m not sure I ever made a woman come with my mouth before I met you,” he admits. “I love kissing you there. And I love your ass, it’s perfect.” With this, I feel his length stir against my stomach as his hands squeeze me. “I like any kind of sex with you, but I prefer being on top of you . . . You make missionary feel dirty the way you grab and move under me.”

  Holy shit. I squirm in his arms. “Ansel.”

  “I know the exact sound you make when you come; you could never fake it with me.” He smiles, adding, “Again.”

  “Tell me everyday things,” I beg him. “This is killing me.”

  “I hate killing spiders, because I think they’re amazing, but I’ll do it for you if you’re afraid of them. I hate being a passenger in a car because I prefer to drive.” He kisses his way to my ear, whispering, “We can live in San Diego, but I want to at least spend summers in France. And maybe we will move my mother here when she is older.”

  My chest almost aches with the force of each heartbeat. “Okay.”

  He smiles and I touch his dimple with the tip of my finger. “And you really are moving here?”

  “I think in February,” he says with a little shrug. As if it’s so easy. As if it’s a done deal.

  I’m relieved, and I’m torn. It makes me giddy to have it so easily settled, but it’s only July. February is so far away. “That seems really far away.”

  “I’ll visit in September. October. November. December. January . . .”

  “How long are you staying?” Why haven’t I asked this yet? I’m suddenly dreading his answer.

  “Only until tomorrow.” My stomach drops and I feel suddenly hollow. “I can miss Monday,” he says, “but need to be in to work on Tuesday for the first phase of the hearing.”

  There’s not enough time. I’m already pulling him through the crowd, back to the table.

  “You guys—”

  “I know, Sugarcube,” Harlow says, already nodding. “You have twelve hours. I have no idea what you’re doing in this place. Go.”

  So not only did they know he was coming, they knew when he was leaving. They’ve talked through all of it. Holy hell I love my friends.

  I kiss Harlow, I kiss Lola, and shove our way to the front exit.

  SOMEHOW WE MANAGE to make it back to my apartment with our clothes still on. I pray we don’t wake Julianne as we trip, kissing, up the driveway, and then bang into the side of the garage, where Ansel slides his hands up under my dress and beneath my underwear, begging me to let him feel me. His fingers are warm and demanding, pushing aside the flimsy lace and sliding back and forth over my skin.

  “You feel unreal,” he whispers. “I need you bare. I need to see you.”

  “Then get me upstairs.”

  We trip and crash our way up the wooden stairs to my apartment, slamming against the door as he kisses down my neck, his hungry hands grabbing my ass, pulling me into him.

  “Ansel,” I laugh, weakly pushing at his chest so I can dig my keys from my bag.

  Once inside, I don’t bother to reach for the lights, unwilling to drag my hands away from his body even long enough to find the switch. I hear my keys drop, followed by my bag and his coat, and then it’s just the two of us in the dark. He has to bend to me, wrapping his arms around my waist to lift me to his mouth.

  “I like your place,” Ansel says, smiling into the kiss.

  I nod against him, tugging his shirt from the waist of his pants. “Would you like the tour?”

  He laughs when I grow frustrated as my fingers fumble with his dress shirt in the dark. Why are there so many damn buttons?

  “This tour includes the bed, yes?” he says, and swats my hands away, making quick work of the last few and finally shrugging out of his shirt.

  “And the table. And the couch,” I say, distracted by the miles of smooth, perfect skin suddenly in front of me. “Maybe the floor. And the shower.”

  It’s only been a few days since I touched him but it feels like a year, and my palms slip down his chest, nails curving along the toned lines of his stomach. The sound he makes when I lean forward and kiss his breastbone is something between a growl and a needful moan.

  He slips my leotard from my shoulders, pushing it down my arms until my hands are trapped at my sides. “Let’s start with the bedroom. We can make the circuit later.”

  “We do have twelve hours to kill,” I say. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and I whimper, having missed him so much it’s like the band around my chest has been broken and I can breathe, deep and full.

  The bed is the biggest thing in the apartment and even in the dark, he finds it easily.

  He backs to the mattress, kissing me the entire way, and sits down, moving to pull me between his open legs. His hands smooth along the skin at the back of my thighs, up and down until his fingers reach the hem of my underwear. The streetlight down the driveway cuts a dim cone of light across one wall, and I can just make out his face, his shoulders. His pants are open and his cock is already hard, the tip peeking above the waistband of his boxers, the length pressed flat to his stomach.

  He pulls me forward and I feel the heat of his mouth on my neck. “Twelve hours isn’t nearly enough,” he says, pushing the words into my skin. He licks a line between my breasts, sucks on my nipple through the lace of my bra. I struggle to free my hands and he takes pity on me, pushing my clothes the rest of the way down my body and letting them pool at my feet.

  Finally able to move, I push my fingers into his hair and it’s just like I remembered—his sounds, his smell, the way my skin flashes hot when he sucks the skin below my collarbone—how did I think I could live a day without this?

  “Want this off,” Ansel says, reaching behind me to unfasten the tiny clasps of my bra. His hands pass the straps, moving the opposite direction as they fall down my arms and his hands slide up over my shoulders and then down my chest, cupping my breasts. Leaning forward, he palms one, kissing the other.

 
; He makes a small sound of approval and moves one hand down over my ass. “And these. Take them off.” His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue flicking against the peak.

  This is the point where I would have needed to disappear inside of someone else, to quiet my mind with costumes and make-believe. But right now, the only person I want to be is me.

  “You, too,” I say. “Pants off.” I watch with unrestrained hunger as he stands, and pushes the rest of his clothes to the ground.

  Ansel doesn’t prompt me further, just inches his long frame to the head of the bed, lies down, and waits until I slip my fingers beneath the lace and push my panties down my hips. Wordlessly he reaches for himself, gripping his cock at the base and stroking up slowly.

  I climb up the bed, hovering over him with my thighs bracketed on either side of his hips. He releases his cock, and it juts up, hard against his stomach, his eyes wide and focused on the diminishing space between our bodies. With impatient hands, he grips my hips, pulling me higher, positioning me over him.

  His jaw is flexed, neck arched back into the pillow, and he growls out a Touch me.

  I run my hands up his chest and lower, sliding my fingers down his length and cupping his balls, his hip. There’s something so dirty about being above him this way. I’m bare for him to see, exposed. I can’t hide my face in his neck and disappear beneath the weight and comfort of his body.

  This is new for us, seeing him here in my apartment and my bed, his messy head of hair in the center of my pillow. His eyes are glassy, his punch-colored lips red from my kisses, and it makes me possessive in a way I’ve never known before.

  “You’re so warm,” he says, reaching between my legs. “So ready.” His fingers slip easily along my skin, exploring, before he grips his cock and moves it against me. I can’t look away from his face, from his focused concentration where our bodies are touching, and it’s like the air has been sucked from the room, incinerated with a single gasp.

  He pushes forward with every small flex of his hips upward, closer, closer, until he’s there, finally, pressing barely inside. I sink down on him slowly, breathing so hard and fast and unable to close my eyes because his expression is unreal: eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, cheeks splotchy and red as he gasps beneath me, overcome.

  It’s too full, too much, and I give my body a second to get used to the feel of him so deep. But it isn’t what I want; I don’t want to be still; I want to feel the thick slide of him and his rough hands growing hungrier. I want to feel him all night.

  I start with just gentle rocking over him, lost in his reactions as much as he seems lost in the feel of me. His hands grip my hips, anchoring but letting me drive, and finally he opens his eyes, looks up at my face, and smiles, showing the pure essence of Ansel: bright eyes, playful dimple, and his sweet, filthy mouth.

  “Give me a little show, Cerise. Break me.”

  With a grin, I lift my body and slide down, and then a little faster, and a little faster, mesmerized by the tiny wrinkle between his brows as he watches my face, concentrating. He angles his hips, satisfied when I gasp, and reaches between us to touch me, pet me, stroke me, and quietly whispers to ride him faster and rougher.

  “Let me hear the fucking,” he growls, pushing up into me. “Let my little wild one out.”

  He watches with rapt attention as I start to come—and he whispers, “Oh, Mia, that’s it”—my hands planted on his chest, my eyes focused on his parted lips and I beg him, “Please, oh, please.” I feel my head begin to fall back as the pleasure climbs. “I’m there, I’m there.”

  He gives me a tiny nod, a tiny smile, and presses his fingers harder against me, watching as I shatter into pure sensation, bucking on him and finally closing my eyes against the intensity of it, the silvery, blinding release as I collapse against his chest.

  The world tips, the soft sheets are at my back, and I feel his hand between my legs, touching me before guiding himself back inside and then he’s moving on top of me—long, sure strokes—his chest pressed to mine. He’s warm and his mouth moves over my neck, to my mouth, where he sucks and tastes, growling low curses and words like wet and come and sweet wet skin and deeper, so deep, so deep.

  I slide my hands down his back, gripping his ass and relishing the bunching of the muscle in my hands as he moves, curling into me and moving hard when I spread my legs wider, dig my nails into his skin, and buck up beneath him, feeling another orgasm take shape at the edges.

  I gasp his name and he speeds up as he glances at my face, grunting out a quiet Yes. Fuck.

  His brow is sweaty, his eyes on my breasts, my lips, and then he pushes his body away just enough that he can watch where he’s moving in me. He’s wet from me, so hard everywhere—muscles tense and ready to snap, ready to explode. The position has always been our best, the friction, the fit of him against me, and he circles his hips, looking between our bodies and then at my face, back down and up again, finally exhaling a tight burst of air as I whisper, “Oh.”

  He groans in relief when I push my head into the pillow, wild beneath him and coming with a sharp cry.

  “I’m close,” he growls, arching his head back and closing his eyes. “Oh, God, Mia.”

  He collapses on me, hips pivoting so wild and deep in me that we’re nearly pressed to the headboard, his hands curling into fists around the pillow beside my head. He cries out as he comes; the sound echoes off the ceiling and the quiet, still-blank walls.

  My senses come back to me one at a time: first the feel of him still inside me, the weight of his body, warm and slick with sweat. My own body is tender, leaden with pleasure.

  I hear the sound of his labored breath in my ear, the quiet I love you.

  After that I can taste and smell the salt of his skin when I kiss his neck, and I begin to make out the shape of his shoulders above me, the slow rocking as he begins moving again, just feeling.

  He brushes the hair from my face and looks down at me. “I want to pretend,” he says.

  “Pretend?”

  “Yes.”

  He pushes up to hover above me and I run my hands down his sweaty chest, touching where he disappears inside. A tremor moves up my spine and I feel the heat of his gaze, the pressing weight of his attention as he scans my face, dissects my expression.

  “Pretend what?” I ask.

  “That it’s six months from now.” His fingers comb through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. “And I’m living here. I want to pretend that I’m through with the case and we’re together. Permanently.”

  “Okay.” I reach up and pull his face to mine.

  “And maybe you have a showgirl costume and have finally learned how to juggle.” He kisses me and then pulls back, brows drawn in an expression of mock seriousness. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “That’s your fantasy?”

  He tilts his head, his smile a little mischievous. “It’s certainly one of them.”

  “And the others?” I ask. I’d wear anything for him, but I know I could be myself for him, just as easily. I want to spend every night loving as much as I love right now.

  For the hundredth time I wonder if the words I haven’t said are written above my head, because his smile widens, reaching his eyes in that way that sucks the breath straight from my lungs.

  “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

  Acknowledgments

  FINISHING A BOOK is a weird feeling . . . since we’ve done this a few times now, we recognize it: we’re happy to be done with something we’re proud to put our names on . . . and never really ready for it to be over.

  As always, thanks to our agent, Holly Root, who is one of our most favorite people. You just get us. You laugh at our dirty jokes, roll your eyes in all the appropriate places, and every once in a while surprise us with your own closet pigletry. Becoming part of #TeamRoot i
s still one of our best days ever, and we are so amazed at the balance you have found in the past year. You inspire. Thank you, ninja.

  We say it in every book, and we’ll say it again: our editor, Adam Wilson, is captain of this crazy ship, and the laughing we get from reading his comments is probably the only abdominal workout we get all year. (Don’t worry, it’s not that sad a state—he’s really funny.) Don’t forget what you gave us permission to do. We certainly haven’t.

  So much love to Jen Bergstrom, Louise Burke, and Carolyn Reidy for rocking the XX chromosome and showing the world how it’s done. You listen to our ideas, push when you need to, and support us tirelessly. We can’t imagine anywhere better than Gallery Books and are so proud to be part of the Simon & Schuster family.

  Thank you to our publicists Kristin Dwyer and Mary McCue. When do we get to do it again? (We won’t write too much here because otherwise we’ll get sappy. You did so good, girl.)

  Cupcakes for Liz Psaltis, Lisa Litwack, John Vairo, Jean Anne Rose, Ellen Chan, Lauren McKenna, Stephanie DeLuca, Ed Schlesinger (for just being Ed), Abby Zidle, and everyone we got to hug when we took over the thirteenth floor of the Simon & Schuster Building. Sup, Trey. LOL Y U SO AWSUM?

  Writing a book is hard, but writing a good book would be impossible without our amazing pre-readers: Tonya and Erin, we basically owe you each a shirtless cabana boy and a lifetime subscription to Harry and David’s Fruit of the Month Club (aka Lo’s dream gift). Thank you for your honesty, always. Thank you, Monica Murphy and Katy Evans, for reading, loving, and pointing out what worked, and what didn’t. Margaux Guyon-Veuillet is the mastermind behind the French translations of the Beautiful series, and she made sure we not only got the language right here, but the details of the city as well. That said, any remaining errors are ours entirely.

  Lauren Suero, you rock our world. Thanks for everything you do, Drew.

  Thank you, Nina and Alice, for December and every day after.

  Thank you to every blogger for your love and enthusiasm. Writing a book is only one step; helping it find its way into the world is another. We’re so grateful for every one of you.